


apotheosis

by oryx



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Canonical Character Death, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even at the end of everything, Braska is much too kind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	apotheosis

**Author's Note:**

> written for areyougame @ DW~

The missionary from Bevelle arrives during Auron’s tenth summer.

 

Their village is small and remote, tucked away against the unforgiving coastline and cut off from the rest of the continent by a range of lush, green mountains. They are simple people – fishermen, mostly, and farmers. They do not have a church, or even a shrine. They do not know the prayers or the scriptures. “Yevon” is a word wholly unfamiliar to them, and so the priest sighs and shakes his head at their ignorance, and takes it upon himself to teach them.

 

“Do you know why Sin exists?” the priest asks the children, who have gathered in the village center to listen to him speak.

 

They all shake their heads.

 

“Sin is punishment,” he says. “Our ancestors defied the wishes of Yevon through conflict and wanton indulgence and use of the forbidden Machina, and so Sin was born to punish them for their transgressions. And now, for as long as it takes, we must continue to repent, so that Sin will someday be appeased. Only once we have atoned fully and completely will Sin cease to be.”

 

And just like that, Auron believes.

 

His father’s death was punishment. His sister’s death was punishment. His mentors and neighbors, teachers and friends… All of them were punishment. Those tragic events that he once found so cruel and unfair now make sense in his mind, possessing some semblance of order. There is finally a _reason_ for Sin taking away the people he loves, and the relief of it all is almost overwhelming.

 

He goes home that evening and tells his mother what he’s learned. His voice trembles as he does so – as he explains to her the importance of piety and self-restraint, of Sending the dead and praising Yevon. He expects her to smile, too. To be overjoyed at this wonderful truth that has been revealed to them. But instead she just looks at him strangely, her eyes weary and melancholy, and asks:

 

“What do you, a child, have to repent for?”

 

He opens his mouth to speak, but cannot find the answer.

 

\--

 

\--

 

Years later, as he stands by his mother’s grave, he realizes the truth:

 

He believes because he must.

 

(Because in the end, the alternative is hardly an alternative at all.)

 

\--

 

\--

 

He hears the rumors before he meets the man.

 

“Went out to reason with those heretic bastards and ended up falling in _love_ with one of ‘em! How d’you reckon? But then, I’ve heard he was always a bit _off_ , if you catch my meaning. A little too open-minded, y’know? And not a cunning bone in him, one of the acolytes told me. Clearly not cut out for priesthood if that’s the case!” The Crimson Blade laughs loudly, the sound reverberating off the vaulted ceiling. Several heads turn in his direction, and a disapproving “hmph” can be heard from somewhere in the historical section.

 

“Excuse me, sirs,” Auron says, his voice low and clipped. “But this is a place of study and reflection. You are disturbing the peace. Please take your tawdry gossip elsewhere.”

 

Both men turn to glare at him, but Auron stands his ground, drawing himself up to full height. At seventeen he still possesses some boyish softness to his face, but his figure at the very least is imposing, and he rests a casual hand on the hilt of his sword as an added warning.

 

“Aye, aye, whatever you say, Sir Monk.” The Crimson Blade sneers at him as he turns away, motioning for his companion to follow. “Damn, I can’t wait to get back to Luca. Everyone’s so bloody uptight in this city…”

 

But it’s not just uncouth outsiders whispering hearsay on this day. As he travels through the Passage of Cleansing on his way to his favorite meditation chamber, Auron overhears the hushed voices of several young acolytes.

 

“Absurd, isn’t it?”

 

“I know! He’s going to be excommunicated, for sure.”

 

“Oh, no doubt about that. The Maesters won’t stand for a _priest_ of all people taking up with a filthy heathen. They’ll probably try to sweep the whole thing under the rug, but I doubt it’ll work. These things have a way of resurfacing.”

 

“Can you imagine, though? Falling for an _Al Bhed_? Gracious, where would such a union even be welcome? Any self-respecting Yevonite city would never…”

 

The rest of their conversation fades away as Auron shuts the door behind him. He tries his best to meditate, to clear his mind of all thoughts and emotions. He tells himself he’s not curious. He is a warrior monk of Bevelle. He is above things like petty gossipmongering – they are the vices of lesser men.

 

And yet he can’t help but wonder who this person really is. This strange priest they speak of, who left home a simple missionary and will return a traitor to his faith, all because he dared to fall in love.

 

This man called Braska.

 

\--

 

\--

 

It was supposed to be a simple extermination.

 

A Sinspawn loose on the outskirts of the city, and the Crimson Blades all deployed elsewhere, leaving the monks to take care of the creature on their own. But one Sinspawn had somehow multiplied into six, and what began as a straightforward mission quickly devolved into a fight for their very lives.

 

Victory was but narrowly attained. Now, Auron sits along the side of the road, his back resting against the trunk of a fallen tree. Blood drips from a deep, painful wound in his side, colouring the dust red, and his left arm hangs limp and useless as poison slowly creeps its way up from his fingertips to his shoulder. His comrades are nowhere to be seen – separated in the chaos – and he wonders if this is it. Is he going to die here? He’s already lightheaded from the blood loss, and his vision is beginning to swim dangerously, drifting in and out of focus. This can’t possibly be the end, he thinks desperately. It’s too soon, he’s only twenty-one, there’s so much he’s never –

 

“Oh my,” a voice says. “Are you alright?”

 

Auron lifts his gaze with some difficulty and finds a man standing over him. An ordinary civilian, judging by his clothes. Perhaps about thirty years old. He has a pleasant face – open and expressive, with short light brown hair and startlingly bright blue eyes. He looks like a person who smiles often, though in this moment his expression is one of anxious concern.

 

“… I think I may be dying,” Auron says, and his voice sounds far calmer than he feels. “Could you by any chance spare a Potion, sir? I would be… most grateful.”

 

The man stares down at him for a moment, and then, oddly enough, he laughs.

 

“You are a strange one, Sir Monk, to speak of your approaching death so casually! I will do you one better than a Potion.” He kneels down next to Auron; places a hand over the jagged gash in his side and begins channeling power through his palm. A Cura spell, Auron realizes with a start. Within moments the torn flesh has mended itself completely, leaving only bloodstains behind.

 

“You… know the healing arts?”

 

“Ah, well… I used to be a priest, you see,” the man says. He moves over and studies Auron’s useless arm for a minute, then begins weaving an Esuna spell to rid his veins of poison. Soon enough, the throbbing pain has all but faded to a dull, mild ache, and pinpricks of feeling return little by little to his hand.

 

“So you quit the priesthood, then?”

 

“Something like that.” The man smiles enigmatically. “How does that feel, Sir Monk? No longer in the Farplane’s grip, I hope?”

 

Auron stares into the man’s eyes intently, then, and feels a strange sort of wonder sweeping over him. A sense of awe that he cannot rightly explain. Reverence, even, or veneration, the likes of which he has only ever felt within temple walls.

 

“I… I do not know how to thank you enough, sir,” he says. “I owe you my life. If you had not come along when you had, I… do not care to think what might have become of me.”

 

But the man simply laughs again. “Gracious, what was I supposed to do? Leave you there to die? Now come – you may be well enough, but you’ve still lost a great deal of blood. You can rest at my home until your strength returns; it is not far from here.”

 

He extends a hand, and Auron reaches up to take it.

 

\--

 

The little girl peers up at him with wide, frightened eyes. One blue and one green, he notices absently, as his savior helps him through the door and leads him to a chair by the fireplace.

 

“Don’t be scared, Yuna,” the man says, his voice soft and reassuring. “He was hurt, but I fixed him up. Go fetch your mother, alright?”

 

The girl nods mutely and hurries away, the faint patter of her footsteps echoing through the quiet house.

 

“Your daughter?” Auron asks, and the man nods, smiling affectionately.

 

“She is three years old this past spring,” he murmurs. “It seems like only yesterday she was just an infant in my arms! Time passes much too quickly.”

 

“Is she… named after Lady Yunalesca?”

 

“Ah, indeed she is! One might call it foolish parental pride, but… You know, when she was born, I thought to myself, ‘this child is destined for greatness.’ It was just a feeling I had. That someday she might change this world, just as Lady Yunalesca did.” He laughs, a bit sheepish. “Though I’m sure every doting father expects the same of their child.”

 

“… She is lucky,” Auron says quietly. “To have a father who believes in her potential.”

 

The man smiles at him, then – gentle and gracious – and Auron feels something settle into the hollow of his chest, an indescribable warmth that makes his breath come a little quicker and his pulse thrum overloud in his ears. And beneath that an ache, not so much of the body, or even of the mind, but of something far deeper, a part of himself he has never known before this moment.

 

“Taking in strays again, dear?” a voice says, and Auron promptly snaps back to reality. He turns to see a woman – blonde hair cropped at the chin, tanned skin, a face that is more agreeable than beautiful. She wears a vaguely bemused expression, leveling her husband with a fond-but-exasperated stare.

 

“Not a stray this time, Mirren,” the man says. “He is a monk from the Bevelle Temple.”

 

“A monk…?” The woman – Mirren – turns to look at Auron, a hint of wariness and apprehension flickering across her face.

 

Auron jumps to his feet, wincing as he does so. “I apologize most profusely for the intrusion, ma’am,” he says, bowing low. “Your husband saved my life, and so I am now indebted to your family. If my presence is inconvenient for you, I will readily take my leave.”

 

Mirren raises an eyebrow. “Goodness, such a serious young man! I have no qualms with you resting here for a time, Sir Monk – you certainly seem polite enough. I’ll go fetch you something to eat, alright? To get your strength back. Oh, and try not to get him started on Yuna stories, will you?” She nods toward her husband. “Once he starts rambling on about her he’ll never stop.”

 

She turns away with a smile, but not before Auron notices something. Her eyes. Brilliantly green, with something… _strange_ about the pupils.

 

An Al Bhed, he thinks, and inhales sharply.

 

“Sir, by any chance, is your name… Braska?”

 

The man looks at him for a long moment, his smile wavering just a little. “So you’ve heard of me?” he says, and though his voice is composed there is weariness to it. “I assume I must be rather infamous at the Temple, even after all these years.”

 

“Ah, well… Yes, I suppose you are.”

 

“And does it bother you,” Braska says, “to be indebted to a person such as I?”

 

Auron thinks about this. “No,” he says finally. “I see that you are a virtuous man, sir. Moreso than many of the so-called holy men who plot and scheme behind the Church’s walls. Though, admittedly… I still find it hard to understand. Why would you give up your title and your reputation, the companionship of your family and your friends, all for an Al Bhed woman? I have wondered this often.”

 

They sit in silence for a minute as Braska contemplates his answer. And then he asks:

 

“What is your name, Sir Monk?”

 

“… Auron.”

 

“Auron. I see. That is a good name. Tell me, Auron: have you ever been in love? And by that I do not mean some passing fancy, but really, truly, with everything that you are?”

 

Auron shakes his head. Braska smiles once more, not just with his lips but with his eyes, too, the eyes of a man who is wholly content with his lot in life.

 

“Someday,” he says. “Someday you will. You’ll fall in love, and you will understand.”

 

(And in this moment, Auron thinks that maybe, just maybe, he already does.)

 

\--

 

\--

 

He is there when the news arrives, scribbled hastily on a torn scrap of paper, delivered to the door by a scrawny, one-eyed Al Bhed messenger boy.

 

Braska’s wife is dead. Her ship to Bikanel was attacked by Sin, leaving few survivors. Her body was found by a rescue crew from Kilika and she was Sent. Now she is at peace (or so the message claims).

 

Auron reads the letter over Braska’s shoulder. There is a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as his eyes trace the words, trying in vain to make sense of them. Braska is much too still – just standing there, staring at the letter as the minutes tick by, his face averted from Auron’s worried gaze.

 

“It’s cruel, the way it all works out,” he says finally, crumpling up the message and letting it fall. His voice is blank and empty. Mechanical. It scares Auron a little, because Braska is always emotional, always inflecting his feelings upon each and every word. “She was going to patch things up with her family, you know. I think they wanted to meet Yuna. I think… they wanted to give us a chance.”

 

“Lord Braska, I… I don’t know what to say. I am so sorry for your loss – ”

 

But Braska holds up a hand, silencing him.

 

“I think I will go for a walk,” he says quietly. His face is still hidden in shadow. “Yuna is sleeping right now, and I don’t wish for her to wake up alone. Would you stay with her, Auron? If it is not too much trouble?”

 

“… Of course I will,” Auron says, and then Braska is gone, vanished out the door without a backwards glance.

 

_I will stay with her always, if that is what you wish._

 

\--

 

\--

 

“I’ve decided,” Braska says one afternoon, as the three of them are gathered around the table for their midday meal. “I am going to become a Summoner.”

 

In his life so far, Auron has been stabbed in the leg, the arm, the stomach, even straight through the palm of his hand. But never the chest. He wonders, in the back of his mind, if _this_ is what it might feel like. This sharp, torturous pain that sinks its fangs deep into his heart and refuses to let go. His throat feels tight, and he takes a shaky breath, trying not to let the anguish show on his face.

 

“Really?” Yuna is gazing at her father admiringly. She doesn’t know, Auron thinks. She is so very young. So blissfully naïve. She doesn’t know what it means to be a Summoner, not really, and Auron can only wish that he were so ignorant. “You’re going to beat Sin, papa?”

 

“Haha, well, I’m going to try my best,” Braska says. He smiles, though nowadays his smiles seem rather hollow.

 

“Are you… certain about this, Lord Braska?” Auron chokes out. “Becoming a Summoner… That is something one trains for from a young age! It would be difficult, for someone to just pick up those skills overnight…”

 

“I appreciate your concern, Auron. But I have made up my mind. I cannot sit idly by any longer, watching Sin wreak havoc on Spira. Watching those around me die. Even if I end up failing… it will still be worth it. That is what I believe.”

 

And though he knows it is selfish and imprudent, qualities unbefitting of a monk, Auron cannot help but think:

 

_Nothing is worth losing you._

_(Not even a Calm that lasts forever.)_

 

\--

 

\--

 

“You know, Auron,” Maester Varas says, leaning forward and steepling his fingers thoughtfully. “I have a daughter. Her name is Raina. Very beautiful, if I may say so myself. She has recently come of age, and so I have been searching for a potential husband for her.”

 

“… I see,” Auron says. Seated in an uncomfortable hard-backed chair with the Maester leering at him from across the desk, Auron feels like a guilty man on trial. His eyes stray to the door and the windows, impulsively seeking an escape.

 

“But there are so few good men out there, you know! So few that are strong, honorable, and faithful to Yevon.” The Maester’s smile is rather discomfiting. “That is why I have called you here, Auron. Time and time again, you have shown yourself to be all of these things and more. And so I wonder if you would do me the honor of becoming my dear Raina’s betrothed? I believe… that we may have much to offer each other, once we are family.”

 

In this moment, Auron sees two versions of his future branching out in front of him. Two separate paths that he could walk.

 

In one, he accepts the Maester’s offer. He marries a woman he does not know, and though he never comes to love her he does come to care, in the way that people often do when their lives are intertwined. They have a child together, and he is a good father, calm and patient and proud, though perhaps he does not always express his emotions as well as he should. He moves up in the hierarchy of the Church thanks to Varas’ support, eventually becoming a Maester himself. He tries desperately to change things – tries to put an end to the corruption from within – but his protests fall upon deaf ears. Bribery and dishonesty persist. The black stain upon Yevon cannot be erased by one man alone, and eventually he gives up all hope. Becomes meek and compliant, slave to the wills of those above him, and lives out the rest of his days in vague mediocrity. He dies with regrets suffocating him, weighing down upon his chest, and no one remembers his name.

 

In another, he declines. He becomes Lord Braska’s Guardian and accompanies him on his pilgrimage. He sits next to Braska when they make camp for the night. He lends Braska his shoulder when he is tired. He puts a hand on the small of Braska’s back when there is danger near, and wishes (indecently) for more.

 

And then, in Zanarkand, he watches Braska die.

 

“I am sorry, Maester,” Auron says, and bows his head. “But I don’t think I’m quite the marrying type.”

 

\--

 

\--

 

“You’re pretty damn obvious, y’know,” Jecht says. He leans back in his chair, arms folded casually behind his head, a smug, obnoxious grin plastered on his face. “Always watchin’ him. Gettin’ all nervous when he leaves your sight and glarin’ daggers at anyone who talks to him for too long. It’d be kinda cute if it wasn’t so pathetic.”

 

Panic flutters like a caged bird in his chest, and Auron can feel his hands curling reflexively into fists.

 

“… I don’t know what nonsense you’re spouting,” he says, keeping his tone cold and dismissive. “I am Lord Braska’s Guardian. It is my duty to watch over and protect him.”

 

“Right,” Jecht says, with a mocking laugh. “That’s all it is: your _duty_. Fuck, man, might as well just admit you’ve got it bad for the guy. Anyone with eyes can see it.”

 

“If all you’re going to do is make ridiculous insinuations, then I’m afraid I must take my leave.” Blood pounding in his ears, Auron stands up abruptly; turns on his heel and stalks away. “I am going for a walk. If Lord Braska asks after me, please let him know that I will return shortly.”

 

“Repression ain’t healthy, man!” Jecht calls after him. “Ya shouldn’t keep that shit bottled up!”

 

This journey, Auron often thinks, would have been so much easier with just the two of them.

 

(But this, he knows, is a lie.)

 

\--

 

\--

 

It is nighttime in Zanarkand.

 

Pyreflies flicker amid the ruins, casting their faint, unearthly glow upon the dusty streets and crumbling towers of the once-great city. Auron is on full alert. They’ve already encountered strange things here – fiends unlike any he’s seen before, unsent souls of men dead for centuries. And the visions, of course. Memories made tangible, or so Braska claims. Auron has prayed before the statue of High Summoner Ohalland often in his life, enough to recognize the ghostly form that had appeared in front of them not long ago. Yocun, too, clutching the hands of her Guardians, telling them that it is all for the best, that for the sake of Spira they must let her go.

 

Now, Jecht is asleep. Auron and Braska sit around the fire, allowing silence to consume them. What is there to do but stay quiet? Tomorrow Braska will die, and all the words that Auron had thought to say now seem paltry and insignificant.

 

“Would you like to hear a story, Auron?” Braska asks, out of the blue.

 

“… A story?”

 

“Yes.” Braska is smiling, the flames of the fire reflected in his eyes. “You know I am fond of old myths and legends. Would you like to hear one, to pass the time? It may help to ease your troubled mind, my friend.”

 

Auron is struck, then, with the overwhelming urge to cry. Even here, at the end of everything, Braska is much too kind. Auron nods, biting back a sound that threatens to claw its way out of his throat – a shout of rage, or maybe just a sob.

 

“This is an ancient myth that was told to me as a child by a travelling Hypello woman,” Braska says. “It is very popular and well-known among their people, apparently – the story of how the Moonflow came to be.

 

“The myth goes like this: Long ago, before Sin, before the Machina War, before anything that we know, really, the world was peaceful and lovely. But all the same, there was a Hypello man who could not find satisfaction. He looked out at the trees and the hills and the ocean and felt nothing. He looked upon great works of art and beautiful people from every race, but still he felt nothing. Until one night when the man happened to look up at the sky. He saw the stars, and immediately fell in love.

 

“Now of course the stars could not love him back – they were too far away. But the man did not mind. He was content merely gazing at them, and he did so every night without fail, for hours and hours on end. And the stars felt his love, even from such a great distance, and to show their gratitude they shone upon him the brightest. It was not much, in the end, but for the Hypello man it was enough.

 

“One night, though, the sky was covered in a thick layer of clouds, and the stars could not be seen. The man was saddened, but told himself it would be alright. It was only a single night, after all. But the next night was the same, and the night after that! Clouds as far as the eye could see, without even a hint of starlight peeking through. For weeks the clouds persisted, and the man despaired, wasting away without the light of his beloved stars to sustain him. From high in the sky the stars felt his anguish, and began to confer among themselves. The suffering of one who loved them was not something they could endure. Finally, they found a solution. They used their power to create a river, and hung this river across Spira like a necklace. And upon this river they placed a reflection of themselves, so that even when the sky was bleak the man could look upon something just as lovely.”

 

Braska is still smiling, but there is a lonesomeness in it. A hint of forlorn resignation. “It is a wonderful story, don’t you think?”

 

“Yes,” Auron murmurs, and bows his head so that Braska will not see his tears. “Yes, it is.”

 

\--

 

\--

 

When he wakes, his wounds are gone and his body feels different. Less substantial, somehow. Pulled taut. Like a piece of thread beginning to unravel and fray.

 

Half a day passes, and he finds that he is no longer hungry. Two days pass, and he does not sleep.

 

On the road he meets an acolyte, begging alms for the poor and sickly parishioners at her temple. He presses 3000 gil into her hand and her eyes go wide.

 

“Have a blessed day, kind sir,” she says, bowing low. “Truly, you are generous beyond compare. Praise be to Yevon.”

 

“No,” he says. “Praise be to Braska.”

 

And before she can say a word he is walking away, rounding the bend in the road and heading west towards the sea.


End file.
